


The Taste Of Loneliness

by redrocksoul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Bullying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent John Winchester, Hospitals, Hurt!John, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Teenchesters, abused!Sam, hurt!Dean, protective!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redrocksoul/pseuds/redrocksoul
Summary: "It's okay, nothing's gonna happen," he whispered to himself. But he felt that it was a lie. And, hell, he was right." Pre-series. Dad takes Dean for a hunt, leaving Sam alone for a couple days. But when the brothers lose contact with each other, bad things start to happen…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's my first story posted on AO3, so forgive me if I get something wrong. 
> 
> This work has originally been posted on my FanFiction account. Chapters 1-7 have been betad by amazamazing (previously amaezing), no beta from chapter 8 onwards.

A young man crossed the doorstep of the facility, full of bitterness and curiosity.

It might sound strange, but that young man was Sam Winchester. It wasn't that Sam hated school; actually, he always considered the institution his second home. Or maybe the first, keeping in mind that he had never had one. And that's what his bitterness came from.

Either way, his mood was furthermore destroyed by Dean, or rather his lack of presence. _Sam, you're twelve, and that's only school. You're gonna be fine._ His father's voice was buzzing in his head. He knew that if Dean had been here then, he would have laughed at him and called him some sort of girl, but that's what he needed. He needed his brother. Desperately.

It was a childish behaviour, but he just couldn't help it. Theoretically, he shouldn't have been at the same school with his brother for a couple grades already, but his father always found a combined facility. And he found it now. He just took Dean on a hunt, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

* * *

"Dean, wake up! We'll be late because of you!", Sam shouted, repeatedly poking a sleeping form of his older brother.

Dean moaned slowly, sleepily and stretched his hand against Sam's, preventing it from further activity. "What're talking about?", he answered, still regaining consciousness. He received a weird gaze from his sibling, but Sam explained it anyway.

"First day at school! We can't be late!", younger Winchester continued to scream with joy.

Yeah, that kid always liked school. God, he _loved_ school. Although it was never Dean's thing, he understood Sammy. He understood the need to be outside. To have normal life, far away from all those monsters, guns, salt and holy water. But he never shared the approach though. _This_ was his life, the future he always took for granted. He never considered anything else. He didn't even want to consider.

"I'm not going", he mumbled, but for Sam the words were perfectly clear, as he straightened and tensed. He looked Dean in the eyes, quietly asking 'why'.

"I'm taking him for a hunt." Their father came out of nowhere, stepping softly, but firmly, with a posture of a tough guy, which John Winchester definitely was. "You're twelve, and that's only school. You're gonna be fine without your brother for a couple days."

 _No, I won't_ , Sam's eyes seemed to scream to Dean. _Help me._

He wouldn't dare to say it aloud though.

* * *

Sam returned to the reality, quickly washing away any memories of the morning. _Nothing happened, I'm a normal kid; I'm a normal kid, nothing happened._ He repeated his greatest (and most common) lies like a mantra, which, indeed, they were.

He strolled through the corridor to the office, putting a polite smile on his face and pretending to be the most ordinary teenager in the world.

"Good morning, I'm Samuel Winchester. I was told I could pick up my timetable here", he said, automatically recalling a dictum he always used in such situations. _I change school definitely too often._ He allowed himself to chuckle.

A brown-haired, middle-aged lady looked up at him with a kind smile and stood up to reach the drawer just behind her. She pulled out a small sheet of paper and handed it to the boy. "Here you are. Don't lose it." She smirked fondly as she saw a shade of anxiety written on Sam's face. "The first lesson you have is Maths, room twenty-seven," she instructed. "Just turn left and go straight forward until the end of the corridor. The room is on the right-hand side."

Sam nodded and thanked the lady, heading to the exit and taking the route, just as the woman said. His heart started to beat faster with every step, echoing rhythmic lub-dub. "It's okay, nothing's gonna happen", he whispered to himself. But he felt that it was a lie. And, hell, he was right.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you sure we have everything?" John asked, immediately switching from a loving father to a cold, ruthless soldier he used to be.

Dean lifted a dirty, little damaged bag from his bed up to his shoulder and placed it in the most comfortable way. "Yes, sir," he answered after a while, awkwardly trying to imitate the tone of his admired guardian.

They moved to the front door, once again making sure that all security systems were intact, then left the room and headed to their beloved Impala.

"We'll be back soon, Sammy," Dean whispered to himself, wishing that his brother was with him right now.

* * *

Sam hesitated for a moment, but finally walked into the classroom. It was still a couple minutes to the lesson, so the silence wasn't anything unusual, yet a little concerning.

He moved slightly and cleared his throat, slowly approaching the woman he believed to be his teacher. He glanced at her quickly, trying not to stare at her long, dark hair and slim, feminine body, additionally emphasised by a bright dress. _Screw you and your training, Dean,_ he thought. "Um, good morning," he said instead, smoothly minimising the distance between him and the young lady. "I'm Sam Winchester, I'm a new student."

"Hello, Sam, I'm miss Watson," she introduced herself, offering Sam a hand to shake as an invitation. He moved closer to her, insecurely repeating the motion.

The alarm had rung and other children reluctantly entered the room and aimed to their desks.

"You can take the place over there, Sam," miss Watson pointed to the free desk near the back. The boy nodded and headed towards his place, relieved that she hadn't introduced him to the rest of the group.

He sat down and stretched his arms, putting both hands on the desk. _You're safe, nothing's gonna happen._ His heart rate became steady again, and Sam slowly started to slip into unconsciousness, ignoring the lesson as he highly doubted that the teacher would pick him to answer.

"Hey, newbie!"

He felt a rolled piece of paper hit him in the right arm. _Great_. "What?" he asked grumpily. He knew school too well to know that disregard wasn't an option at the moment. Instead, he tried to think about the way Dean would behave. He always knew how to deal with such situations.

He looked at his interlocutor, attempting to look tougher than he actually was. The guy was sitting in a row behind him, a little to his right. Tall, muscular, nonchalant look, cool clothes… And definitely older, probably a year or two. The first thought that came to Sam's mind was to stay away from him. But it looked like it had been too late already.

"What?!" The guy raised his voice. "Ah-ah, no respect for elders. Looks like we have to educate you in that matter," he sighed falsely, nodding to his friend, who sat next to him. _Great. He's got a friend._

"Just leave him alone."

Sam turned to catch the author of the words. They belonged to a boy sitting nearby, curled tightly in the chair. _He probably wasn't planning on saying it aloud,_ Sam thought.

"Oh, another volunteer for our small savoir-vivre course! How wonderful!" he whooped. Sam and his ally glanced at each other with despair written all over their faces.

* * *

Dean wandered through the dense forest pointlessly. He was hunting a wendigo with his dad, a son of a bitch that killed over a dozen people in the last couple of years. "It's a very easy hunt, Dean," he mocked his father quietly, "we'll be right back". Dean huffed, taking a look at his watch. Five hours of walk and absolutely no trace.

About a quarter later, Dean felt the first drop on his face that seemed to proudly herald the coming of a rain. Or, basing on the clouds, a real thunderstorm. He couldn't complain though; he and his dad split in order to make the hunting faster.

Another drop fell on his nose. His every instinct suggested immediate return to the motel. Warm, dry, comfortable motel. But it wasn't an option; he'd got work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

The rain was pouring heavily from the sky. Dean was soaked wet and had a little runny nose already, yet still pushed himself forwards. He swore quietly, remembering what they were hunting. "Great idea, dad. Of course we don't have to come back to the car. It's _absolutely_ no problem to kill a wendigo in a middle of a rain!" He stumbled into an old branch that lied on the ground and fell straight to the mud. "Fuck!" he sighed, assessing the damage and feeling familiar discomfort in his right ankle.

* * *

The bell rang, signalling the break. Sam couldn't have been happier that moment; although no one dared to speak to Sam after the talk, he still wanted to run away as fast as he could.

He was packing his books to the bag when he felt some person just behind him, thanks to his hunter training. He fought the need to punch that person, not wanting any more trouble than he already had.

"They won't give up on us quickly, you know?" It was the same guy who protected him earlier that day. When he stood, he seemed even skinnier, weaker than before. Like he hadn't eaten anything for a month. "Oh, I'm Harry," he stretched his hand, allowing Sam to shake it.

"Sam." Young Winchester smiled shyly, zipping his backpack.

"New in the town?" Harry asked, forcing his voice box to produce as neutral tone as he could. Because not that he cared about Sam…

"Yeah, just arrived yesterday."

"After one month of school? That sucks."

"Tell it to my dad." The Winchester couldn't (and wouldn't) hide a bit of bitterness in his voice. Not that he didn't love his father, but he still had a lot of grief hidden inside. "What's your next lesson?" He smoothly changed the topic. He felt like he could say anything to the boy standing aside him, but right now he didn't find it a good idea.

Harry hesitated, feeling the tension in Sam's voice, but eventually decided to ignore it. _Not that he cared_ , but he didn't want to be intrusive. "History."

"Oh," Sam sighed sadly, seeing big letters saying 'English'. "See ya at lunch, then." He said it casually, trying not to sound as it was a question.

"Yeah, I guess."

Harry was gone in a second, and Sammy felt lonely again.

* * *

Dean pulled the phone out of his pocket. "Please, let it be a signal, let it be a signal," he whispered to himself. "Yeah, signal!" He dialled his father's phone without hesitation. After some really long seconds, he heard a harsh 'hello'. "Dad, let's head to the motel," Dean let the words flow out of himself. "It's raining too much, and I'm sure as hell it won't magically stop in a few minutes. There's no way we can kill those bastards in such weather, and I'm not risking getting hurt just to try it." He closed his eyes, waiting for his parent's screams about how important this job was. But they never came.

Instead, he got soft voice of John, almost a whisper. "Okay," he said. "I'll be in the car by twenty minutes. How about you?"

Dean slowly moved his weight on his injured leg to make a step. He couldn't help a little squeal that escaped from his mouth as the wave of pain shot through his ankle. "Might be little longer, I guess." He forced himself to sound natural.

If John heard Dean cry in pain, he decided to ignore it and simply hang up.

"Looks like I'm alone with the problem." Dean allowed himself to chuckle a little and turned left, approaching the car.

"Slowly, one step at a time." He kept instructing himself while walking through the woods. The ground was uneven and slippery, yet he pushed himself towards the car as fast as he could. His ankle burned and itched and throbbed, but he was just too determined to make it on time and not to show his weakness. He was too proud to admit to John what happened. And he was too focused on himself to remember he was on a hunt.

And this moment, he changed from a hunter to victim.

* * *

John knew something was wrong with Dean.

Well, maybe not that he _knew,_ but he _strongly suspected._ It wasn't likely for his son to call with such a case. Yeah, Dean was right, they shouldn't hunt in a weather like this. But the withdrawal meant they had to do it all over again a few days later.

But the problem was, Dean knew it all. And if he knew it, and still made the decision to leave Sam once again to repeat the hunt, something must've been wrong.

He took his mobile again and quickly dialled his older son's number. When Dean didn't answer once, he called him one more time. Still no response.

"John Winchester, you old fool," he growled to himself and ran to the car.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam strolled through the corridor, eyes following the mosaic of tiles on the floor. Normally he would stare at everything around him. Normally he would appreciate a new environment, feeling again as a tabula rasa _,_ clear account, without anyone stigmatising him or seeing through the prism of being a brother to _that_ Dean Winchester. However, nothing was normal in that situation.

Right now, the only thing he wanted was to sink into the ground. Or to change into a ghost. Yeah, short talk with a reaper and everything's over.

But the problem was, Sam wasn't suicidal. He knew he had to deal with the problem that was twisting his guts and narrowing his throat to the point he was almost choking himself to death. And he had to do it fast. _Breathe in, breathe out, you're a normal kid_. He forced himself to put a false smile on his face and followed to the English Language room.

* * *

John arrived at the car ten minutes later. There was no trace of his older son. It wasn't anything unexpected, but he still hoped it was a false alarm and he was just being overprotective. He dialled Dean's cell, once again receiving no response from his son. However, he heard something instead, and it made his heart clench.

There was a weak sound of a rock music coming from between the trees. It was so quiet and delicate that if John wasn't trained to hear such noises, he would certainly miss that one. But he was a hunter, and he was too aware of the world around him to make a such mistake. A one, small mistake that could cost his life.

And he wasn't just a hunter. He was John Winchester. The brave and invincible Winchester. And right now, the very furious Winchester.

* * *

Claws. Pain. Jerk. Pain. Nest. Darkness…

There wasn't much Dean could've registered. He knew only one thing for certain – he was screwed, and it was all his fault.

"Forgive me," he mumbled silently, not so sure if it was directed towards his dad or brother.

* * *

Sam spent his lunchtime with Harry, talking about lots of books and school and all the other stuff children like them speak about. Sam couldn't help it, but he was bored most of the time. He liked his companion, all in all Harry was the only person he could speak to, but he missed the thrill that followed every conversation with Dean.

"You have any siblings?" Harry asked eventually.

"Yeah, Dean, an older brother." Sam smiled at the thought. "He constantly keeps pissing me off, but I love him and wouldn't replace for anyone else."

"Lucky you," Harry replied emptily. "I'm a foster kid," he explained. "Theoretically I have two older brothers. Practically I'm alone in life."

"I'm…"

"Don't be sorry. I'm used to this order of things. I just wish I had someone close for once. You know, someone who says you 'hi' when you come back from school, or helps you with your homework…" He shrugged.

"Hey! My dad and brother are out of town for a couple days, so maybe we can hang around together?" Sam proposed with a hint of hope. He didn't want to be alone right now, and certainly didn't want to spend the whole rest of the day in a crappy motel room.

Harry nodded with a weak smirk.

* * *

John bent down to pick up a small object from the ground. His son's phone was covered with a thin layer of dust and dirt, the screen smashed. He tightened his grip on it, trying to take control over emotions that flew through him. He took a deep breath and looked around, firmly assessing the situation.

He spotted a weak trace on the wet ground. The weather wasn't helping, but within a short time since the occurrence the rain hadn't had enough time to settle down and shape the mud the way it had wanted.

He followed his only lead in a rush, without any doubt or hesitation. His inner soldier screamed for rationality, but his reckless heart was in charge. _No one dares to hurt my boys and leaves without consequences_.

* * *

The bell rang and Sam followed to the main exit. He looked up sadly, staring at the large, dark clouds hung fixedly in the sky and feeling wet drops hit his chicks.

"Hey, zombie," Harry said light-heartedly, seeing his friend pensively and motionlessly standing on the lawn. "What do we do?" He asked, reading Sam's mind.

"If it keeps raining, Dean and my dad will probably want to come back." _They are not that stupid to hunt a wendigo in the middle of a rain, right?_ He added in his mind. "Tomorrow maybe?" He proposed.

Harry nodded gloomily. "See…"

He wasn't allowed to finish.

"Not so fast, boys." Sam heard a steady and confident voice behind him. He recognised the owner immediately. _Trouble_.

* * *

Dean was lying down, sore, wet and cold. It didn't bother him that much though; he'd been in a worse shape already and learned how to ignore the pain when he was in danger. But what was really driving him mad was the feeling of hopelessness and vulnerability. He was tied up in a cave, too dark to see anything. He had no idea if he was alone, how much time had passed or if his father was looking for him. _He'll be so pissed_ , Dean couldn't help but moan.

He moved a little, trying to find more comfortable position, but soon he realised he was too well kept in place by something enlacing his body. _Wendigos don't use rope_ , he thought, terrified.

* * *

Sam turned around slowly. _Don't show the fear_ , he heard his brother's voice in his head. _Being scared means being reckless. Don't think your opponent isn't gonna use it against you._

"I told you I had to teach you some manners. Didn't you think I forgot, did ya?"

The aggressor was standing right in front of Sam. The Winchester had to admit, he seemed tougher than he thought. He was tall, really tall, and probably more muscular than he looked, as he was covered by a massive leather jacket. Short brown hair carelessly arranged on his head reminded him of Dean, but one detail successfully spoiled the idea. Azure blue eyes looked like a steel, cold and dangerous. And ready to use as a weapon.

* * *

Dean shivered, feeling a sharp object sliding over his chest, leaving a long, deep scratch as it tore the skin apart. He could feel a stream of a warm liquid flowing down his thorax, equally on both sides. A wave of pain shot through his body and he couldn't help a little yelp when the claw kept ripping him apart. It went down to his abdomen, where the pain quickly switched from severe to unbearable.

The hand was lifted up and Dean used a little break to breathe rapidly, filling his body with a new supply of oxygen and mentally preparing for more suffering. He knew the job too well to know it was just a warm-up.

* * *

Sam looked around. _Always assess the situation before any move. You don't want to be surprised_. He recalled the memories of Dean teaching him how to fight, desperate for any tips and hints he was given by his brother.

He noticed two boys, keeping a safe distance from where Sam was standing. _Big guy needs a support_ , Sam smirked almost invisibly. Harry was just behind him, ready to help, however not brave enough to stay in a front line.

"Alex, eleven!" One of the fellows screamed to the cold-eyed kid.

"Alex, now I know why he is so stupid." Sam used a moment of distraction to say the sentence to Harry to relieve the tension. He was scared as much as the boy, but because of his brother's training he knew exactly how to hide it. He also felt responsible for him, as he was the one who dragged Harry into it in the first place. And that's why he couldn't show his weakness.

Sam's opponent turned left a little, spotting a lady Sam had seen before, probably a teacher. Alex stood motionlessly, keeping an eye on the boys, preventing their escape. The teacher walked next to them, but soon disappeared behind the massive door of the main building.

"So, who's first?" Alex smiled sneeringly.

The tension in Harry increased to a degree he couldn't hide anymore. He let a short yelp leave his throat.

"Looks like we've got a winner."

He grabbed Harry's arm, quickly pulling him until the boy was standing about two feet away. He moved his hand backwards with an intention to strike hard. He didn't make it though, as he was stopped by a rapid blow in his forearm that forced him to make a step to the back.

"Oh, little Sammy knows how to hit," he chuckled, aiming his fist at younger Winchester's face and blowing straight in the right eye.


	5. Chapter 5

John hurried through the dense forest, eyes focused on the ground not to lose the weak track in front of him. He was in full marine-soldier mode, no hesitation or mercy for anyone who hurts his ally. Or his son.

The trail was suddenly cut off and John looked around. He was standing in the middle of a small valley, surrounded by many species of leafy trees and thick green bushes and, from the north, a fraying rock wall. It all seemed so calm and quiet, like yin and yang, in perfect harmony with each other, which only increased the boiling rage hidden inside the man.

However, for so many years now he knew exactly how to cope with the emotion and use it beneficially. He took a deep breath and coldly assessed the situation. The trees were too weak to bear his son's weight, not to mention giant wendigo. That left him only one option – the wall.

* * *

The only thing Dean wished for was a quick death. He completely lost sense of time; the seconds seemed to last hours and minutes passed like they were as long as days. Dean stopped hoping for a rescue a while ago, he obviously couldn't tell when exactly it had happened. _If dad wanted to save me, he'd do it already._ A nasty thought slipped into Dean's mind. _But why should he save me? I'm a walking disaster. A pathetic, unworthy piece of crap. I should be dead already anyway._

He screamed miserably when another wave of pain shot through his injured body when four long claws cut his tender skin along the ribs, this time getting much deeper, digging into intercostal space and ripping his muscles apart. His gaze immediately turned foggy due to lack of oxygen and exhaustion. _So this is how it's gonna end. At least I'll die as a hunter._ He tried to chuckle, but soon he felt a metallic taste of blood in his mouth. _Not good._

* * *

John investigated the rock wall very carefully. _Wendigos wouldn't bother to hide their nests well. They are too neglectful to care about such things,_ he thought. He found a darker spot about five feet above his line of sight, hidden behind a rock ledge.

"Looks like a cave," he whispered to himself.

He started climbing slowly, unsteadily. It wasn't high and the rocks were pretty rugged, making the climbing easier, but also painfully hurting his unsecured arms. However, all the pain was gone in a second he stood on the ledge, giving its way to rage and a rapid flow of energy.

* * *

The evil hand released the pressure put on his chest, freeing Dean from any further suffering. It wasn't a relief anymore; his breathing became fast and shallow from the constant scream, his thorax felt like it was passing through spontaneous combustion and he lost a lot of blood. Too much blood.

The room was too dark to see a thing, but somehow he knew that his torturer had gone away. He took this moment of piece to sink in his thoughts like they were a dearest form of delight. Unfortunately, it was finished before it'd really been started.

Boom.

Dean heard a massive blow, but he had no idea what or who had been hit. It was unusual and very loud, at least it seemed to be that way. He had probably suffered from some sort of concussion when he'd been dragged, he couldn't exclude the option that his perception of the world changed due to injury.

But then there was a flash of light, and he felt the wendigo stabs its claws in the middle of his stomach.

And the world went black.

* * *

John overcame the distance really quickly. He didn't care about anything but his son right now. He was fighting an uneven battle with guilt, and it was driving him mad.

John was a man of action – he could do horrible things, he _had_ done horrible things without any hesitation caused by a thought of consequences. He'd always do what he had to do. But this time the price was his son – one of two the most precious gifts he'd ever got from his beloved wife. He knew he couldn't screw this up.

Yet he wasn't able to fight the bitter thought that it was his fault Dean was in the situation in the first place. The kid was only sixteen, he was still growing and going through the process of becoming a man. John couldn't deny that Dean was very responsible for his age, yet he still lacked a lot of strength, stamina and experience in fight. He shouldn't have allowed him to split up.

John took a deep breath and pulled a flashlight and a knife out of his backpack. He checked his right pocket, making sure that the small box with matches he'd put there before was still in place.

When everything was set and right, he entered the darkness of hell.

* * *

Sam was screwed. He knew it from the moment he hit the guy. Well, he didn't even hit him properly, he just stopped him. He doubted that Alex would have a bruise because of that.

He was lying on the ground, every part of him aching. He knew that Harry was somewhere close to him, but he didn't bother to look at the kid.

Alex and his crew were long gone. And it was the only thing he was grateful for. He was too sore to move, not to mention standing up. He saw people passing by, but they didn't show any sign of interest about them. Finally, when he accepted the fact that help wouldn't come, he sat up slowly.

He hadn't realised it before, but the world was spinning around him, making him feel very nauseous. He sensed bile coming up his oesophagus, but quickly stopped the action, swallowing a couple of times to get rid of the nasty taste in his mouth.

He swore quietly and closed his eyes for a second, trying to make sense of the world again. When he felt a little better, he opened them up again and slowly approached his friend curled up on the green lawn a few steps away. It wasn't a long distance, so Sam quickly made it without any problems like showing his friend how crappy he was feeling.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice was harsh and unsteady, as he'd received a punch in the throat. He raised his hand and grabbed Harry's, slowly revealing his friend's face covered in blood and tears, his eyes glassy. "Hey, calm down, it's over." He allowed himself to smile a little.

He might have acted strong, but his heart was shattered to pieces the moment he saw his friend. The boy seemed so small and broken, like it was the end of the world for him. The situation was hard for Sam, he couldn't deny it. But it wasn't _that_ hard. Thanks to his father, he'd been through worse than being beaten by a bully. And Alex didn't seem so invincible after all.

Harry raised his head, making eye contact with Sam. "You probably want to run away from me now," he stated sadly. "I just… I know them. They won't let us go that quickly. Especially Alex. If he aims at someone once, he doesn't leave until he destroys the guy. And now we're doing as his toys."

"Nothing's certain yet. But right now, we need to do something with us. I'm not going to give them satisfaction on how strong they hit." Sam raised his hand to point at his swollen eye. "School should be empty of children right now. It makes things easier." He stood up and led his friend to the bathroom.

* * *

John stepped in the cave. It was completely dark and smelled like a rotten flesh. He was almost positive it was the right place.

He turned on his flashlight and made his way deeper into hollow corridor, cautious about every step he made. He wasn't allowed to make any mistakes now, especially that the price was his son's life. At least he hoped so.

"Please, don't be dead," he whispered almost soundlessly, his voice full of sorrow.

He moved the beam of light around the room, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable and minimising the risk of being taken aback. He caught a movement on his right-hand side. It was no more than a piece of shadow, but gave enough information to attack.

He stretched his arm, pulling the knife out and aiming at his enemy. He didn't see the thing, so it was a blind shot. And possibly the only one chance he had.

He felt a moist surface collide with his forearm and pushing his entire body on the rock wall. _Just like predicted_ , John smirked and bent his body, using the speed to throw his enemy on the wall instead.

Boom.

Some pieces of rock fell on the ground along with the wendigo, which lied on the ground motionless and vulnerable.

"Check on Dean, then finish the job," he instructed himself, rushing deeper into the cave and leaving the monster behind. And it was a huge mistake.

* * *

The boys made their way to the closest bathroom, luckily completely empty. The classrooms around seemed unoccupied as well, so there was no risk of someone getting in.

Sam approached the closest sink and opened the tap, allowing cold water to flow. He let the liquid wash his hands of all the dirt gathered in the process, reaching for some soap located nearby. He bent in his waist, careful not to put too much pressure on his back. He could feel that he'd received some pretty solid punches in his spine. He put his face next to the stream of water and, by the gentle movement of his arm, he directed the current towards it, allowing to clean up all the concerns of the day.

Harry followed his friend, standing in front of the sink, next to Sam. He didn't share Sam's approach though; when he finally was able to see the extend of the damage made, he was more than terrified about what might come next. He positioned his face directly under the stream, relieving the tension caused by swollen cheek and drowning into the moment of pleasure, yet still too aware of what surrounded him to feel free.

* * *

John dropped his flashlight on the ground, as he was hit hard in his chest, hearing a familiar crack and a wave of pain the same moment the creature slipped next to him. He was close to passing out, but managed to sober up within a second when a terrible scream collided with his ears.

He reached for his knife, but it wasn't anywhere fastened to his belt. He knew he had matches, but was also too aware of his chance to succeed without any possibility to pin the monster down or a least weaken it before. But there was no time to lose; if he turned back to look for the weapon, the wendigo might already kill Dean.

John rushed deeper again, worrying about the distance. If something went wrong, there would be no easy escape. He had to make it out alive for his son's sake. For his both sons' sake.

He took his shirt off. He wasn't that stupid to fight against a wendigo with only one match. He moved silently in the direction of the scream, hoping the monster made the same mistake as he did and underestimate his abilities. When he was almost certain about the creature's position, he lit a match and put it onto his shirt, waiting the longest milliseconds in his life for the fabric to catch the fire and throwing it in the beast, which started to combust immediately, screaming in pain.

John ran to his son. The faint fire allowed him to see the kid well enough to know that he was in a really bad shape.

"Dean, wake up, son." John touched his scratched cheek, careful not to inflict any more pain than he was already in. The boy didn't move at all, but had a steady pulse and kept breathing. John glanced at the remains that used to be a wendigo. Making sure there was no way Dean could be hurt further, John turned back to grab a flashlight.

He was back in a second, ready to assess the damage with a help of more steady and stronger light. He directed the beam towards his son.

"Oh shit."

He knew Dean was bleeding, he knew he was probably bleeding out, but he had no idea it was _that_ bad. Dean's entire chest and abdomen were just a one, big wound. Dean still had his T-shirt on him, completely soaked in blood and permanently clung to the deep scratches running along his ribs. John forced himself to look up from his thorax, searching for other injuries that may make their way to the car too risky.

When he found none, it made him almost happy. He quickly relieved his son from the ropes of unknown origin and gently lifted him up, not wanting to cause any more pain. He swore quietly when his back protested. Dean might've been slim, but was also tall and muscular.

"Oh, you should be carrying your old man now," he smirked, feeling a steady breath on his bare chest.

They made their way to the exit and John closed his eyes for a moment as the bright light met his eyes. He hurried to the car, not able to look down at the limp body in his arms that used to be his oldest son. Dean was sixteen years old, yet he seemed to be an infant – weak, dependent and vulnerable.

He ran without a break, persistently trying to keep his breathing rate steady, but he was only human. The car was a couple miles from the cave and it was more than obvious he wouldn't be able to run all the way. He stopped as soon as he felt dizzy, too aware that he couldn't allow himself to faint right now. He was tired and hurt, but it was nothing compared to the injuries Dean had sustained.

John slowed down to the walking pace, forcing himself to look down on his child. He was terrified and miserable and overwhelmed by helplessness.

"Please, don't die. Don't do this to your dad." John mumbled when his breath allowed him to do so. He was surprised by how relieved he felt when he let the words flow out of his mind. But he was even more surprised when a pair of familiar big, green eyes looked up at him. "Hey, hold on, we're almost there."

"Yessir," Dean slurred almost soundlessly. John brought himself to smile, which was the last thing these beautiful eyes registered before they froze permanently, wide open and completely empty.


	6. Chapter 6

"No, no, no, don't do this to me, you hear me? Don't you fucking dare!" John shouted miserably as his heart was torn apart by the sight of his son lying on the ground, limp and deadly still. He still hoped for some magical miracle to happen, but nothing suggested any change.

John forced himself to calm down to the point he could regain control over his shivering body as streams of tears were running down his cheeks, successfully blurring his vision. He recalled all the medical training he'd received while serving in the army in order to do everything right. He was too aware of the burden he'd have to carry if something, even the smallest element, went wrong.

He bent down above his older son's body and pushed his fists against the torso, feeling the sternum gave up and broke. He minded that if Dean had been conscious, he would've been in terrible pain. "Sorry, son," he mumbled automatically.

His arms worked hard to maintain the steady rhythm of his offspring's heartbeat and occasionally deliver a new supply of oxygen.

* * *

Sam fell heavily on his bed, dropping his backpack nearby. He was way more than tired; every single cell in his body was screaming for some rest for a while now, making him very likely to conform and sink in the abyss of the quilt.

He wasn't surprised when as soon as his cheek met the pillow he fell asleep. He didn't care about the clothes, still covered in dirt that reminded of today's events, or taking a shower, even though it was probably his favourite part of a daily routine. It was the only thing that would relax him to the point he could almost forget about how bad the world surrounding him was and change him into an average, innocent twelve-year-old he should have been.

* * *

John leaned over his son's vulnerable body even further, gently placing his head close to Dean's chest. He insistently tried not to have high hopes about what he was about to experience as he knew how unrealistic the return of spontaneous circulation was.

His quiet prayers were fulfilled as he noticed a weak sound of pumping blood.

He couldn't help but smile with joy, gently moving his hand through Dean's short brown hair when a small tear escaped his right eye.

* * *

Sam woke up multiple times during the night, still frightened of the previous day's events and the constant absence of his family. He knew that hunting a wendigo wasn't the easiest thing in the world and that Dad would be more careful having Dean by his side, but it didn't change the fact he wanted his brother now more than ever.

He hadn't realised it before, but he always unconsciously sought for his brother's comfort. Unlike his father, Dean had been there any time Sam needed him to be, without all the talk about 'being a man'. He was his one-and-only cuddle toy. And, like a toddler deprived of the favourite teddy bear, Sam wanted to cry.

* * *

John gently put his son on the backseat of the car, and instantly took the driver's place to start the engine. He was impressed by how fast the emotions went down as he started to listen to steady roars coming from under the hood, almost lulling him to sleep.

Except the small space lightened by Impala's headlights, everything around him was completely black. John was thankful that the road was straight and smooth, allowing him to look at Dean without a fear of causing a car accident. He drove steadily and fast, not even realising that the speed limit had been long exceeded.

* * *

_I'm dead. Ugh, it hurts, so maybe I'm not dead. Where am I anyway?_

Dean had managed to shift his arm slightly before his chest was flooded with pain, making him sincerely regret the movement. _Oh crap_. He slowly opened his eyes, one after another. His vision was very blurry, yet he knew exactly where he was. And he wasn't happy about it.

"Hey, hey, hey, take it easy, buddy," John whispered firmly, kindly. Dean glanced at the source of the sound, relaxing his muscles as he met John's concerned look. "It's okay, you're okay," he mumbled, more for his own sake than his son's.

"Sammy?" Dean splattered, fighting a sudden urge to cough, not to cause himself any more pain than he had been already in.

"Sam's fine and it's not gonna change any time soon, so it will be really great if you just calm down and lie still." Seeing Dean's confused gaze, John continued. "You're safe now, in the hospital." The boy appeared even more bewildered. "You almost died, Dean; I'm not risking you getting hurt again. And don't try to argue again, you look awful, son. Now, go back to sleep."

Dean eased himself against the pillows.

* * *

Sam ate his breakfast in a deafening silence. The absence of any form of life around him was driving him crazy. Every single cell in him was boiling, desperately screaming for unleashing the emotions hidden inside.

The spoon was lazily circling around the bowl, blending the already smooth porridge. Sam supported his chin with his left arm, staring at the clock nearby, counting the long seconds of his worthless life in his mind. _Tick-tock, tick-tock, seven of the clock, twenty minutes and I can finally walk_.

The enthusiasm Sam felt towards the school was more than surprising for him, especially considering the latest events. Yet everything was better than sitting in this motel room, worrying and wondering why he hadn't received any response from either of his relatives. He wasn't shocked by the fact that they weren't here, but the lack of _any_ information was kind of a new thing.

Just before the time, he went into the bathroom, briefly assessing his appearance. He was wearing a wide, black hoodie he used to cover his face in, so all of the bruises were well-hidden. Also considering that all of his clothes were clean and not-so-folded, he thought he looked more than decent.

He briefly checked the salt lines before going out. As everything seemed untouched, he shut the door, happy and comfortably oblivious to what was hidden just around the corner.


	7. Chapter 7

John sat on an uncomfortable chair, leaning heavily against the railing surrounding Dean's bed. His son was finally sleeping peacefully, looking so innocent and cute like he was four again. John smiled at the view, exhaustion eventually prevailing as he let himself ease against the barriers and sink in sleep.

Dean snored, slightly shifting his arms' position, still too tired to do a full move. He was lying on his back, the only part of his body that was not-so-hurt as he had managed to hide it, pushing himself against the rock wall. But now all the traumatic experiences were long forgotten, he was safe in a secured building, with one of the best hunters ever watching over him.

* * *

"Dad?" Dean mumbled quietly, harshly, his throat sore after hours of scream.

"Good morning, little princess." John smiled, peering at his son's weak posture.

Dean didn't seem to notice his presence. Instead, he slowly stretched his arms in the air, careful not to spoil the thick dressing around his thorax. Then he grabbed the railing, trying to sit up, but failed miserably. _I'm so weak. So fucking useless._ He gazed around the room until he saw his father watching him. Dean immediately shrunk and his eyes turned watery as he imagined how disappointed his father must've been.

"Hey, you did well, son." John read his son's mind and attempted to cheer him up. "You lost a lot of blood. Your heart stopped. I don't expect you to be ready to go. I don't even expect you to be conscious. Honestly, after such an action, you can do whatever you want now."

Dean couldn't hold back a comment. "That includes a beer?" He smirked slyly.

_That's my boy_ , he thought, yet hid any signs of amusement from Dean. "You're sixteen. You're not even supposed to drink, not to mention a public place and your state. No way, you're not drinking," he said instead, adding later: "If it doesn't contain any illegal activities or things that make my wallet cry, I think you can ask for anything."

"I could use some water then."

John nodded and stood up, ready to fetch a bottle. He pulled the glass door, squinting as he let some light into the room. All the blinds in Dean's place were completely shut as John hadn't wanted anything to interfere and disturb his son's blissful sleep. But right now Dean was awake and something told John it wouldn't change soon, so he made a mental note to shift it later.

"Mr. Winchester?"

John turned into the voice's direction. A young man was standing in front of him, wearing a long, white lab coat, informing John that the guy was a doctor. Although he usually tried to avoid the members of this profession, he had to admit that he looked quite nice and harmless.

"Eric Bunce, I'm honoured to be Dean's doctor." He shook John's hand in an invitation gesture. "Has he managed to wake up yet?"

"Yeah, he's a strong kid," John responded with pride.

"I don't doubt it," the doctor said. "I would like to re-examine him. I think it would be best if you were with us, if you don't mind. He might be strong, but he's been exposed to trauma and requires extra care. The presence of a member of his family may be really helpful."

John nodded and followed the doc.

* * *

Sam sat down next to an old oak, leaning his back on its trunk. He felt safe in the shadow; hidden from the world, but observing everything around. He really enjoyed quiet times like this – the only time he didn't feel overwhelmed by the world around him.

He wished he could have been one of these carefree teenagers – having no idea about all the monsters around him and blind to the cruelty and injustice of humans.

"Hey, wake up."

He felt someone poke him in the right shoulder. A young, slender boy was standing in front of him, wearing a loose, bloody red T-shirt with Superman logo on it. _Harry._

"Morning, my friend. How's your day?" Sam said cheerfully.

"I feel like crap. And today we have history lesson with one of Alex's fellas." Harry complained.

"But it's not Alex, huh? Besides, I can't get rid of the feeling that Alex won't bother us anymore," the Winchester added.

"What lesson do you have?" Harry asked after a long and awkward break.

"Uh, I think I have Spanish now."

" _Español es muy importante_. Go, this freaking teacher hates when you're late."

* * *

"How do you feel?" the doctor asked.

"Like I'm gonna puke."

John couldn't help but chuckle at his son's response.

Dr Bunce took a few steps backwards, taking off the pair of blue gloves. "Okay, you can lie down now."

John grabbed Dean under his armpits, slowly easing him against the mattress. Although able to mutter a sarcastic answer, Dean still was very sore and couldn't do anything about the shattered muscles of his.

"Alright," the doctor spoke eventually. "Everything seems fine. Try to get some sleep now, you need a lot of rest to heal. In the meantime, I'll make a quick call and drop by to check on you later on."

He grabbed his notes and left the room.

"He knows," John and Dean said simultaneously, looking at each other.

"What do we do about it?" Dean asked.

"Run off. _Now_." John stood up and took some clothes out of the bag, leaving them on Dean's quilt. "Will you manage to get changed by yourself? I'll park the Impala closer to the back entrance."

When Dean nodded, John had already left the room.

* * *

Sam was nearly asleep during the whole Spanish and History lessons. He'd already had the material done in schools he attended to, so after ten correct answers in a row the teachers decided to give up and let him drown in his thoughts.

He started to miss Dean again. He liked school and liked Harry, even those bullies didn't bother him that much. He was used to it. But still, he missed this weird sense of humour that covered his sensible inside big brother. The guy who always teased him publicly, but admired and encouraged him to be whoever Sam wanted to be when they were alone. The guy who was always completely honest with him and who would never turn his back on him.

Sam knew that the end of a school day was closer. The time of return to the cold and quiet motel room, excluding persistent sounds of people having sex and screaming at each other.

When the bell rang, he moved to the school canteen, sitting at the free table in the left corner of the room and waiting for his friend.

Harry arrived a couple of minutes later, with a whole plate of food. He seemingly didn't share Sam's mood.

"Hey," he said, his mouth full of chips with ketchup. "Do you get this algebra? I suck at Maths." he said as he pulled the Maths book on the table.

"Sure." Sam shrugged and opened it.

"Oh, no," Harry responded and poked himself in the head. "Information overload," he explained. "Library, after the lessons?"

"Sure."

Harry eyed his friend. "What is going on with you?" Sam looked up slightly, but failed to make a visual contact. "Hey, most lessons behind us, and no sign of Alex and the company. Looks like you were right. Well, either way, it's a reason to celebrate, and you look like your dog is dead." When he received no response, he asked: "Your dog is not dead, is it?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't have a dog."

Harry glanced at him in confusion. "So are you gonna tell me or not?"

"I'm just a little worried about my brother." He shrugged neutrally.

_It was a dark and gloomy night. Dean ran through the dense forest, streams of water flowing across his face as the rain was pouring heavily. He was looking around all the time, very focused, seeming to know exactly what he was searching for._

_He rushed out into the clearing and stopped in the middle. An inhumanly tall, smooth figure stood beside him and embraced him by its long, slim arms. He tried to fight, to scream, but he knew he was already gone._

"I'm sure Dean's fine." He smiled faintly.


	8. Chapter 8

John ran to the car as fast as he could. He didn't have to listen to Dean's response to his question; he knew his son too well to know that his pride wouldn't allow John to help him out with putting clothes on. Yet every second far from his son was making him anxious, even nauseous. Dean was weak, his wounds of rather unknown origins. John didn't have to be a genius to figure out that he was suspected of neglecting his child, maybe even worse.

He knew that wasn't a perfect life for his children. But he was still a father, and even if he didn't always show it, he loved his boys more than anything.

And, in his world, it meant no more than an Achilles heel.

* * *

A man lit a cigarette and massively inhaled a good portion of smoke into his lungs. His mind was being shattered by nerves – these little evil sons of bitches that didn't want to let him to think straight.

He rubbed his rough chin with his thumb and index finger, the only ones that remained attached to his hand, though still heavily marked by numerous scars made in a process of torture he had suffered from so many times. His long, dark and little greasy hair was being ruffled by the wind, additionally sharpening his already strong facial features, and making him mysterious, scary and gloomy.

As the cigarette turned almost completely into ash, the man finally relaxed. He stretched his long arms and legs, supporting his back by his old-but-beloved truck's side. He walked in and sat down on the driver's seat, cautiously observing the hospital exits.

He watched a middle-aged man storm out through the back door, running to the parking lot. "There ya go," he whispered with a sly look on his face.

* * *

"Close the door, start the engine," John instructed himself right after he entered the black classic car. "No time to waste."

There was a low, familiar roar and John inhaled the air. His baby always knew how to calm him down. He set the car in motion, accelerating with a record speed and braking before he really started the ride. "I just wish you were here, Mary," he murmured, recalling an image of a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair and deep, sky-blue eyes, "because I'm about to do something epic." He chuckled.

He left the vehicle and shut the door loudly, looking around. He couldn't help but notice that the day seemed to match his mood perfectly. The sky was grey, gloomy and completely overcast. The wind was blowing cold, rhythmically humming as the waves hit the leaves of the tremendous oaks in the corner of the car-park. And if it wasn't scary enough, an unusually dense fog was embracing all the objects around him, somehow implying that he wasn't welcome to see something.

And even though his sight was so compromised, his military senses told him clearly that he was being observed.

* * *

Dean limped his way to the car, heavily leaning on John. He took step by step, didn't stop at all. His heart clenched any time they passed a staff member, his mind wondering what would be worse: being caught on an escape attempt, or being caught on it _with_ _his_ _father_. He really didn't want to experience either.

They walked into an old lift, one of those that seemed to remember the Civil War. The paint was faded and scratched, the colour unable to be identified. The only light bulb was shining faintly and blinking, reminding Dean of all those ghosts he had hunted during his life.

Dean was just sixteen years old – the age when many hunters didn't even expect to turn into ones, living as reckless life as they could only imagine. Meanwhile, he was more experienced than many of them would ever become, having no mercy for anyone who could wish to hurt his family. And if that wasn't enough, it was all locked up under the skin of an incredibly charming (and totally inconspicuous) teenage boy.

* * *

Sam was sitting in a school library – it seemed to be his favourite place lately. Peaceful and quiet, it allowed him perfectly to sink in his mind, silently hidden behind the curtain of pretences with his gaze fixed on this one book page for quite a long time already and still totally oblivious to its content.

A mild smell of books always calmed him down. He liked to have things in order and sorted out well. He liked the feeling of permanency and recurrence, even though he was laughed at by his brother because of that. It gave him a sense of stability, a thing he always wished he had had. And regardless of the town they were in, libraries always smelled the same.

"Hey, _Sammy!_ "

A posture stood by the door about ten feet from Sam. He didn't have to get any closer – Sam easily recognised who was approaching him. And he knew it was no good.

* * *

They were sitting in the car in complete silence, only rhythmical roaring of engine keeping both the Winchesters awake.

"Hey, dad?" Dean asked tentatively, not sure if he should break his father out of whatever trance John was in.

"Hm?" John tilted his head slightly in order to meet Dean's gaze. "What?"

"We just passed our motel," Dean stated.

"Yeah," John nodded. "I know."

Dean looked at him questioningly, his eyes trying to scan John through. Yet he didn't receive any response – John was just staring blankly at the road in front of him.

"Someone's following us," he said, after a while.

"Oh."

"Don't worry. I'll lose him as soon as we enter the town." He sent an assuring glance.

* * *

"Are you sure we lost him?" Dean breathed out, collapsing on the bed with a loud thud.

"Who do you think I am? Of course I'm sure." John looked at him closely. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just a little dizzy."

" _Sure_ ," John responded sarcastically. "I'll bring you some water, then we'll look at your wound." When he heard a quiet moan of protest from his son, he added: "No discussion."

He got closer to the kitchen sink and pulled a glass out from the cupboard, filling it with cold liquid. Seeing John approach, Dean placed his arms on his sides in attempt to sit up, but with the adrenaline level back to normal, the activity seemed to be a Sisyphean task.

"Don't." John put the glass on the night stand, delicately reaching his son's armpits and embracing him securely with one arm, the other positioning the pillows in order to keep Dean upright. When he got it done, he eased his scion against the stack and offered the glass, making sure Dean had held it steadily before he lessened the grip. He watched Dean drink – the shaking hands, the difficulty swallowing, but also the pleasure of doing something on his own, even though it was outwardly such a normal and easy activity.

"Thanks," Dean whispered, yet he knew it was totally unnecessary. John nodded and took the flask away, placing it just next to the bandages and swabs that magically appeared on his bedside. Dean gulped loudly.

"You know I have to do it," John stated. "Be thankful that you were out for stitching. Come on, the worst part's behind. Be a _man_." Dean sighed at lifted his arms above his head, leaving John plenty of room to maneuver. "Good _boy_ ," he smiled, teasing Dean.

"As soon as Sam comes back," he started, unwrapping the bandage, "I'll leave you with him. I need to finally get the job done, and our first aid kit became oddly empty when I took the bandages I'm going to use on you right now."

Dean hissed a little as the pressure around the wound decreased. "I'm _fine_ ," he breathed out, "I can stay alone."

" _Sure_ ," John repeated with the same sarcastic tone as before. "But I prefer waiting for Sammy." He finally released Dean from the all of the dressing. He looked at the laceration, then at Dean's pale and sweaty face. "What about a little break? Sam shouldn't return in at least an hour; let's leave the wound open to air awhile, huh?" Dean nodded weakly.

* * *

As much as Sam was relieved to finally leave the school walls, the whole enthusiastic approach disappeared as he looked at the black classic Chevrolet parked in front of the motel room. He wasn't expecting the rest of his family in at least the next two to three days, and in his world an early arrival almost always meant that something bad must have happened. And if that was bad enough to force his dad to drop the hunt, he didn't need to add any more to it.

He pulled his hoodie further on his head, making sure that his face was thoroughly covered, including a couple of new bruises around his mouth and cheeks, the old ones still failing to fade away, leaving his jawline and right eye full of purples and yellows.

Sam moved closer and pulled the handle, the door giving in and squeaking open, revealing the room. It was dark and quiet, _dead_. A streak of fear shivered through Sam, yet he made another step, not willing to wait any longer for what was inevitable. He saw a figure on one of the beds. _Dean._ He approached his brother with confidence, carefully watching for any abnormalities in his appearance.

Dean seemed to fall into deep sleep, quiet snoring and rhythmical chest raises the only signs suggesting he wasn't dead. He was lying on his back, his head tilted to the side, arms and legs spread across the bed in the usual manner. Sam felt something was wrong, he knew something must've been wrong, yet he couldn't find a thing.

"Sam."

Sam jumped, startled by a familiar voice. John was standing right behind him – though looking little tired, he was completely fine.

"Easy buddy, it's just me," he said with a weak smile. Sam didn't find ail to notice John had glanced at Dean the time he had started talking, as to make sure the first-born was not awaken.

"What's wrong with Dean?" he asked straightforwardly, with a hint of accusation.

John sighed. _The kid's got a talent of figuring people out._ "He's just tired, Sammy," he tried to resolve his child's curiosity. The last thing Dean needed was to explain everything to his brother, or deal with freaking out Sam. "It's been a rough night for him. Let him sleep, well, he's not gonna wake up soon anyway".

Sam raised a brow. He didn't buy it.

"I need to deal with a couple of things," John finally managed to speak up. "Take good care of him and call me if anything is wrong, okay?" The youngest nodded. "I'll be as soon as I can." He grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the room.


End file.
